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Death Angel, Sweet Angel (2nd Edition)
Death Angel, Sweet Angel is the title of the "fictional" original story adaptation of Police Quest I (it sort of a blending of PQ1EGA and PQ1VGA with some references characters from later games: Ben Bulwer) in the Police Quest Casebook. It is an original story based on the version that appears in the game itself, but takes some of its own direction and liberties with the characters and story (some events do not appear or are glossed over, and additional scenes added, characters names changed or merged with other characters). Some characters from later games are introduced into the events of the first. It's worth noting that there are some changes between First and Second editions to the stories. For example second edition in part one "Roll Call" Sonny's opinion of Bulwer is a lot stronger than it is in the first edition. There are some additional scenes in the first edition, not found in the second edition as well. Such as run in with Helen Hots. Death Angel, Sweet Angel Roll Call Sonny Bonds pulled his dark blue Corvette into the lot at Lytton City Police headquarters. Another fine morning, he thought, like the morning before, and the morning before that. Sometimes he felt sick to death of California. No rain. No snow. Just day after day of sunshine and light. He smiled ruefully. And night after night of the wacky weirdness that seemed to spell out "West Coast" in big block letters for the folks back East. He took his sunglasses from the glove box, leaving his wallet behind. That was his first mistake, because it immediately reminded him of why he was in such a sour mood. The bill from Eddie's Service Station lay right on top. "Race It or Wreck It-If It Ain't on the Road, Then It Ain't Worth Driving." Four hundred and thirty-seven dollars, Sonny thought. He had just come in from the freeway, what he liked to think of as an interactive California lottery, and the sound of banging pistons had preceded him the whole way. Motor's knocking like a freshman's knees on prom night, he thought. Looks like I'll have to give Eddie an encore presentation. Locking up, Bonds tried to put it all out of his mind. There wasn't anything he could do about it anyway, not right now. He had promised to pull a double shift for Steve. That would mean he wouldn't get the car back to the shop for another day, maybe two. He walked up the short flight of steps to the side entrance and pushed through the glass doors. The main police station in Lytton sounded bigger than it was. The very phrase-Police Headquarters-conjured up images of gleaming walls, recessed fluorescent lights, emergency response switchboards tied to 9-1-1 service, security doors sliding quietly into place. But in reality the building was a relic from the early 1960s, barely up to earthquake code, walls covered with institutional paint, small offices, narrow hallways. But it served its purpose, acting as the control center for the department, relaying information through Dispatch, and serving as the repository for evidence and as the base for ongoing investigations. Sonny made his way to the locker room. Puzzled, he looked over to the second bank of lockers. Jack Cobb was leaned over with his face against the cool metal. "The Blue Room," he said. It was all the explanation Sonny needed. "The fabulous Blue Room," said Steve Jones. Jones worked Burglary. Sonny had been with him on a stakeout last winter. On the whole, Jones was a better stakeout partner than most. He had a sense of humor and he didn't talk too much about himself, which helped the tedious hours pass. Jones continued, in a bad impression of Robin Leach, "Here Jack Cobb takes his repast as the glint of a red sunrise reflects off a broken wine bottle, the smell of a new dawn rising against the fetid squalor that forms the magnificent backdrop-" "Can it, Steve," Sonny said. "Crying out loud, Jack. You can't stay out all night drinking and then expect to come in here, climb into a patrol car, and pull an eight-hour shift." "Been working so far," Jack said, heading for the can. Steve came up beside Sonny and looked over his shoulder. "Death on the installment plan." Sonny took his service revolver and holster down from the hook and examined it. He was meaning to get a new one, but so far this had served well enough. He had drawn this weapon only once in his entire career, and the only shooting he had done with it was at the pistol range. Not counting that night last year when the guys hosted a surprise birthday celebration for Jack Cobb. He learned weeks later that the painters had fixed it so you couldn't even tell where the bullets had gone into the wall. That was almost a year ago, Sonny thought. In fact, it must have been a year ago almost to the day, because he knew that Cobb's birthday was right around this time, maybe even this week. So the gun was OK. He knew it worked, at any rate. Whenever Sonny read about how police departments in the bigger cities were outgunned on the streets, he started thinking about changing over to a bigger weapon. An automatic, maybe. If the crooks in Lytton ever started to develop an arsenal, he wanted to have the firepower to stop it. But for now he'd settle for the .38 police issue with a speed loader. It wasn't like he was going to war, he thought. Not while he was stuck in traffic division. Sonny took a look at his watch. 'Jack, you going to make it?" he yelled. "Yeah, yeah, Sonny. You go on." "All right. You've got about three minutes, so I would quit praying to the porcelain altar there and get a move on if I were you. Dooley will have you for lunch if you're late." Jack groaned. "Don't mention food," he said from behind the stall door. It was all Sonny could do. He was Jack's friend, not his father. It bothered him, though. Something wasn't right. Sonny closed his locker with a bang. He opened his briefcase to check the contents. Inside was his LPD ticket book, a pen, and a slim, dog-eared notebook he used as a daily log. He closed the case and hustled out into the hallway. Time was short. One good feature about this old building, he thought, you never have to walk far. He made it to the briefing room in plenty of time. In fact, he was the first one there. That relieved him. He didn't want a black mark now, not after yesterday's nomination for LPD Officer of the Year. If you were the last person to the briefing you had to endure some of Sergeant Dooley's most creative insults. It was the kind of recognition that Sonny wanted to avoid. My star is on the rise, he thought, stepping into the empty room. And not a day too soon. I want out of uniform and into plainclothes. 1 want career advancement. I want a car that runs. There's no way I'm ever going to end up like Jack, he thought with bitter sadness, no way you'll find me hugging a locker-room toilet and yelling for bear. He crossed the room to the set of pigeonhole mailboxes in the far wall to check for messages. Inside he found a note from Steve. "How about a 11-98 at Carol's Caffeine Castle later in the shift?" it read. Sounded all right to Sonny. A jolt of the hazardous toxic event that Carol sold as coffee was enough to get anyone through a double shift. His eye caught sight of the Lytton Tribune, which someone had left behind from the graveyard shift. He glanced at his watch. He still had time to skim the news. He walked to the table and picked up the paper. His eyes fell immediately on a piece by Ben Bulwer, the crime reporter. Usually he didn't read these pieces, but Bulwer had a way of getting under your skin. :Dope in the City :by :Ben Bulwer :The city of Lytton i no longer the beautiful, peaceful and quiet city it once was. Lytton has experienced rapid growth and prosperity, but along with the growth has come an alarming increase in the crime rate that has changed the face of the city. The homicide rate is higher than the city has ever seen. Prostitution i on the rise. :Police Sgt. John Dooley states that dangerous drugs are showing up on the streets and in the schools. The Tribune has learned from a reliable source that a big-time drug dealer with a street name of "Death Angel" may be responsible for this rash of drug trafficking among our children and neighbors. Sonny sniffed. Yeah, he thought, I'd like to see this "reliable source" myself. But he knew he would never get the chance. The scuttlebutt around the station was that when the DA had suggested convening a grand jury to look into Bulwer's sources, the reporter had refused to cooperate. The Trib's publisher had backed him up and threatened a lawsuit. So right now things were at a stalemate. But Sonny was sure of one thing: If he ever found out that Bulwer was holding back, that he was a witness to a crime without offering assistance or information, then he was going to nail him as an accessory. Sonny had taken an oath to defend the laws of the city, state, and country. And he would protect the freedoms of press and speech with his life. But freedom of the press didn't mean freedom to kill. And that was exactly what was happening to the kids in Lytton. Somebody-this "Death Angel"was killing kids with the promise of an easy high. Kill them fast with a bullet, kill them slow with poison, it was all the same to Sonny. If he ever had the chance to get his hands on this pusher who called himself the Death Angel, Sonny was going to do a little break dancing on the creep's skull. And he knew he would have no lack of dancing partners.First Edition version: Sonny sniffed. Yeah, he thought, I'd like to see this "reliable source" myself. But he knew he would never get the chance. The scuttlebutt around the station was that when the DA had suggested convening a grand jury to look into Bulwer's sources, the reporter had refused to cooperate. The Trib's publisher had backed him up and threatened a lawsuit. So right now things were at a stalemate. Somebody-this "Death Angel"-was killing kids with the promise of an easy high. Kill them fast with a bullet, kill them slow with poison, it was all the same to Sonny. It was still dead. He flipped the page. He still had a few minutes. He decided to indulge himself ' and read about yesterday's announcement. He found it buried toward the back of the paper, a small item that didn't even get a byline. Figures. Crooks get page 1, cops get buried along with reports on sunspots and baldness cures. :LPD Officer of the Year Nominees :Lytton PO Chief Morton Whipplestick has nominated patrolmen Sonny Bonds and Joe Walters for the LPD "Officer of the Year" Award in recognition of their outstanding law enforcement efforts and commitment to crime prevention. Still, he thought, folding the paper and tossing it back on the table, it's in there. That's the kind of notice to get. On one hand, Sonny disliked the feeling and sense of competition that such an award implied; on the other hand, it couldn't hurt his career. He was devoted to the law and to police work, and he was determined to climb the ladder as high as he could. The people at the top have the power to do the most good, he thought, and that's where I want to be someday. He grinned to himself, half-seriously thinking of ways he could sabotage Walters's campaign. The troops were starting to file in. Steve Jones took a seat next to Sonny at the front table. "Looking good in the paper, my man," he said. "Thanks," said Sonny. "I think you can beat Walters. I've got fifty bucks riding on you." "It's not a competition," Sonny said. He felt a small pang of embarrassment at his own thoughts. "All life is competition," said Steve. "Never think otherwise." They watched Jack walk slowly into the room. He held his head perfectly still, as if his skull was full of nitroglycerin. Sonny wondered about the stability of the San Andreas Fault. He tried to catch Jack's eye but got an empty stare for his trouble. "Reminds me of a George Romero movie," said Steve. "What?" Sonny replied. "You know, Night of the Living Dead. Zombie town. Death Mask. Malcolm Lowry, maybe, or perhaps Poe-The Masque of the Red Death." Sonny just stared. "How do you come up with this stuff?" he asked. "Ah," said Steve. "You're of course referring to my easy transitions between pop culture, literary high-mindedness, and scatological repartee. A curious journey through the sacred and profane." "I just want to know what the hell you're talking about," Sonny said. "Honestly, I don't know which is worse. You and your 'repartee' or Jack and his regurgitations. High-mindedness meets high-mindlessness." "That's good, Sonny," said Steve. "I like the way you handle yourself in a crisis situation." Both men silently watched Detective Laura Watts enter the briefing room. "So," Sonny said to break the spell, "What odds did you get on your fifty bucks?" "You're going out at 6 to 5, my man." Sonny nodded. He could live with that. He looked across the room to where Laura Watts sat. I could live with that, too, he thought. So far, his conversations with Detective Watts had been perfunctory and courteous-one might even define them as "professional." When she passed him in the hall she left a cool wake that chilled him like the night wind off San Francisco Bay. Still, his mind persisted in playing out its fantasies, rocketing along like the brain of a 16-year-old adolescent with terminal hormonal displacement. Sergeant John Dooley entered the room at his usual pace, a loping gait that dissolved into a shuffle at close range. More than one suspect had mistaken that walk for the limp of an old man, but Sonny had seen Dooley run down a punk from a dead start and with a 25-yard handicap over two wooden fences and up three flights of steps. The creep never knew what caught him until he looked down and saw Dooley's big gnarly fingers close around his ankles. When he hit the pavement at full stride, the fall flattened his nose across part of his lower lip. All the way to the hospital the punk whimpered from the backseat of the squad car, complaining about his nose, sniffling through the blood, and complaining that cops should have to retire when they get that old. After that incident, Dooley was known as "The Flash." But not to his face. Sonny pulled his notebook from his briefcase. "OK boys and girls, gentlemen and ladies," Dooley began. "I've got today's hot sheet for you. Topping the charts this afternoon," Dooley read from the papers in his hand, "is a black 1983 Cadillac sedan, license plate LOP1238, Vehicle Identification Number C03456218. This number entered the top ten last week with a bullet. Suffice it to say," Dooley paused, raising his eyes from the papers in his hand, "that the owner-one Malcolm Washington-would like to reclaim his property sometime before he makes the last payment." "On a more sobering note," Dooley continued, "three teenagers were arrested last night in three separate incidents, all involving driving under the influence. Two of these outstanding young citizens were found to have cocaine in their possession. All three attendjefferson High School. In this case, high seems to indicate something other than the level of education the children at that school, and throughout the city, are receiving." "Now, some of you here enjoyed a very long weekend, made longer perhaps by the frequent imbibing of liquid refreshment. But it's time to get back to the streets," Dooley said, focusing his eyes on Jack Cobb. "lf you read this morning's paper you know that we aren't exactly stemming the tide of crime in our fair city. lt doesn't matter how many good busts you make, it doesn't matter how many crooks you put behind bars. I don't care how many old ladies you help across the street, how many drunks you get off the road, how many pounds of no e candy you confiscate. The people in Lytton don't read your reports. They read the paper. And as you can see," he said, holding the morning paper aloft so the room could read the "Dope in the City" headline, "their reading is taking a decidedly prurient turn." "So let's give the paper something more positive to notice and report. Let's get the story out loud and clear: The citizens of Lytton control the streets, and the LPD is there to serve and assist. And if there's anyone here who isn't prepared to back up your fellow officers so that we can do that job adequately, then I want to know about it. Because when the feces hit the fan and you can't respond, you're more than just a number on an accident report. You're dead. And your partner's dead too. And all the grieving friends and family that you leave behind will have to live with that for a long time." Nobody spoke. Dooley's words hung in the air like wet laundry. "OK, then," he said. "Hit the road." The blue uniforms filed out slowly. A few murmurs were passed among them, but no one made any comments loud enough for Sonny to hear. He wasn't concerned. He had the impression that Dooley's comments were aimed at Jack, but they could have been intended for any one of the officers. Sonny understood that anytime you let outside influences alter your performance, you risked taking a long trip down a short road. There were times when he wasn't always on-line, some times when his brain was on automatic. He worried about Jack, sure, but his first concern was with his own behavior. He took a quick look at his notebook. :Talk with Bulwer at Tritbune? :Check--Jack's birthday :5tolen--black Caddy :LOP1238 :VIN C03456218 Bulwer. That's one he d like to nail. Even more than that, he'd like to peg the dope being sold in the schools on somebody. That Bulwer seemed to know a lot for a reporter. Maybe I should pay him a visit, Sonny thought, then he dismissed the idea. He knew that if the Chief ever caught wind of an officer in an unauthorized meeting with the press he'd bust that cop to meter patrol quicker than he could shine a badge. On the other hand, there's no telling when you might just bump into somebody-even a newspaper reporter-on the street, off duty. Cruise Control Sonny grabbed the keys to his patrol car from the pegboard in the hallway, then took a radio from stock. Lousy luck, he thought, turning on the radio and listening briefly to the squawking. He gave the keys a closer look. Number 22. He had a hard time believing that that car was still roadworthy, after what jack Cobb did to it on that dogfight stakeout last month. That's what I get for sticking around to read my notes, Sonny thought. He vowed that next time he would be first out of the briefing room so that he could get his pick of vehicles and radios.This section was edited out of the second edition. The sun hit Sonny hard as he stepped out into the parking lot. "Hey, Sonny!" called Jones, pulling up alongside before heading out of the lot. "You take care of that vehicle! I hear that it's the Chief's sentimental favorite!" "Yeah," Sonny answered, glancing over at his assigned cruiser. "I can see where the Chief might have made his rookie run in this thing." "It's a poor man that blames his tools, Sonny Bonds," admonished Jones. "See you later at Carol's!" He accelerated out into the street. Sonny watched Jones take the corner, then turned back to his own vehicle. There's nothing wrong with this car, he thought, noting a bad paint job that tried to disguise the minor scrapes. Nothing that a bullet through the oil pan wouldn't fix.Sonny watched Steve take the corner, then turned back to his squad car. He performed the perfunctory safety check, walking around the vehicle to look for obvious problems. Except for a few minor scrapes and a bad paint job, nothing seemed amiss. All this car needs is a bullet through the oil pan, Sonny thought. Put it out of its misery. But with the county commissioners being so tight with the money these days, the department couldn't afford another car. If this one goes, Sonny thought, I'll be doing my beat on a bicycle. He opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. Reaching overhead, he pulled his PR-24 nightstick from its cradle and laid it on the seat beside him. He'd never had to use his stick on a civilian. just the sight of a police officer putting his hand on the grip was enough to cool most hotheads. Sonny started the car and backed out of his space, then rolled out into the street. "I'm 10-8," he said into the radio handset. "10-4, 83-32," the radio crackled. "Make the streets safe for me out there, Sonny Bonds." "10-4, Dispatch." He replaced the handset in the cradle. Driving north on Sixth Street, Sonny let his mind return to the morning's briefing. He reached over to the seat next to him and retrieved his notebook. He'd like to get his hands on that black Cadillac. More than that, he'd like to nail the guy pushing drugs in the schools. He swung right on Peach, then turned south on Fourth Street. The radio was quiet. Another quiet day in Lytton. At the light he watched a young couple emerge from a toy store with a large stuffed bear. They laughed as they struggled to get it into the backseat of their Toyota. Looking up, the woman caught Sonny's eye. He nodded, then pulled away as the light turned green. Kids, family, wife-Sonny hadn't thought about any of those words for a long time. Or the woman who always rode those words into his mind-Marie Wilkans. The name still sent an electric current along his spine. But then it crashed, lights out, and all that remained was a stillborn image like an old forgotten photograph, just rambling darkness and the ragged remnant of a dream. Sonny and Marie had been inseparable in high school. He was a Lytton native, born and bred. He could still remember the day Marie entered the school a newcomer, with bright flashing eyes that she kept shyly focused on the floor, hair so black that it could be night's blanket. Marie's mother had brought them to Lytton with the promise of a new life, one to replace the one stolen from them in some strange town in the middle of the country. In that town, which Marie could not bear to name, her father had been killed by a would-be robber stealing the cash from a convenience store just off the highway. Marie's father, a salesman, had pulled off the road for a pack of cigarettes and a Coke. He walked into the wrong place at the wrong time, and the robber, only 22 years old and scared out of his wits, had turned at the sound of the bell and put three bullets in his chest. Marie's father died on the floor, gazing up into a rack of Gummi Bears, remembering that Marie liked the yellow ones best and wondering how much change, exactly, he had in his pocket. That tragic history controlled and finally unmade Sonny's relationship with Marie. What had started off as a high-school romance had turned serious during their senior year. But when Sonny started talking about the future, about how he wanted to study criminology and then enter the police academy, Marie had grown increasingly distant. She didn't understand why anyone would want to be in a job that meant carrying a gun. She didn't want to be involved with someone if it meant sitting up at night worrying that he might not make it home. "I've had enough of that," she had told him the summer before he left for college. They were still dating then. "I don't ever want to get that call in the middle of the night, I don't ever want to have to go through what my mother went through, and I don't ever want to have that kind of hole ripped in my life again, ever." The irony of it all revealed itself when Sonny returned to Lytton with his degree, ready to enter the academy. Although he had lost touch with Marie, he knew she would want to see him. His exuberance didn't prepare him for the sight of Marie's mother, bitter with grief, standing in the door of the house he remembered so clearly. When she told him he could find Marie most any night with the girls on Fig Street, Sonny's heart turned to stone. Fig Street was the hub of the city's prostitution trade. The women who worked there walked on the margins of life. Unbelieving, Sonny had driven to Fig and made a few slow passes. Even during the afternoon, the hookers didn't hesitate to flag him down to ask for a "date." He couldn't believe how flagrant they were about it. Flashing teeth and cheap jewelry, clothes that looked like they came off the clearance rack at Frederick's of Hollywood-all of these impressions flowed over Sonny as he drove slowly down Fig Street. He found Marie at the comer of Fig and Third. She was sitting at a bus stop, talking with another hooker. She didn't see Sonny, and that was OK by him. Suddenly, from a doorway to the left of the bench, one that led to the upstairs rooms over the Bag 'n' Go grocery, a big man emerged and began screaming at Marie and her companion. Sonny watched Marie stand and say something to the man, but he couldn't make it out. Marie's companion laughed. Out of nowhere, the man's big hand swung around like a club. Marie's head snapped back and her knees buckled. Her friend cursed the man and grabbed Marie to keep her from falling. Swearing, the man turned and went back inside. It happened so fast that Sonny hadn't time to react. Before he could get out of his car, the episode was over. As he crossed the street, Marie looked up. She stared at him with eyes as hard as glass and that told him all he needed to know. He turned and walked back to his car. He still saw Marie occasionally. Not socially, of course, but on his beat, as he drove the city streets. He didn't understand it, but he still had a soft spot for her, somewhere beneath the anger and the humiliation. So he watched out for her. He checked up on her through his sources. It helped him to know they were still connected. It was tenuous, but it was a connection. He liked to think that it helped Marie, no matter how weak the bond between them. He liked to think that. An Accident Waiting to Happen The radio crackled to life and brought Sonny out of his reverie. "83-32. 83-32. Respond to 11-83, southwest corner of Fig and Fourth." Traffic collision, Sonny mused. "10-4. I am 10-20 at First and Fig. ETA 3 minutes. 83-32 over." "Roger 83-32. 11-41 en route. Over." "Roger, Dispatch. 83-32 out." Sonny made a quick right and circled back to the reported accident scene. It wasn't hard to find. A group of curiosity seekers had gathered around what used to pass as a late-model green sedan. From the looks of it, Sonny figured that the driver had attempted to make an unorthodox tum into the side of the Colonial Van & Storage warehouse. The warehouse didn't accept drive-in deliveries. Sonny parked and got out of his car. He took his notepad and radio extender, then hooked his PR-24 to his belt. He crossed the few feet to the smashed car and came up behind a couple of kids who were peering through the broken window on the driver's side. "OK, fellows. Police business. Move your act down the street, pronto," he ordered. "Sure thing, Officer," said one of the boys. They retreated to the crowd gathering on the sidewalk. Sonny took one look inside the car and keyed his radio. "Dispatch, 83-32. Copy?" "Roger, 83-32." "83-32 is 10-97. Where in the hell is that 11-41? We've got a major 11-80 here. I need those E.M.T.s on the double. Over." "Roger, 83-32. I'll check it out. Over." "Roger, Dispatch. 83-32 out." Sonny looked into the car. The driver was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Opening the door slightly, Sonny reached inside gingerly. His hand came back sticky with blood. "Oh, man," he muttered. He turned the driver's head slightly. A small, well-defined hole in the left side of the driver's head was complemented by a gaping wound in the man's lower-right jaw. This guy didn't get this in any auto accident, Sonny thought. He felt the driver's neck. Nothing. He reached for the driver's wrist and felt for a pulse. Too late. Probably dead before he hit the wall, Sonny thought. The wail of a siren made its way down the street. Sonny keyed his radio. "Dispatch, this is 83-32. Tell the meat wagon to cut the horn. This is 11-44 here. No hurry." "Roger, 83-32." A few seconds later, the wailing stopped. Sonny looked in at the driver again. He examined the car from the outside. A spiderweb of cracks spread across the windshield, and the front end all the way down the right fender was history. Sonny backed off and closed the door. That's when he noticed another small, neat hole-this one in the driver's window. It had all the makings of a drive-by. He keyed the radio again. "83-32. Looks like a homicide." "Copy, 83-32. Coroner unit and homicide unit on the way." "Roger. 83-32 out." Sonny glanced up quickly. The crowd was still there, drinking it in. He made his way around the car to the group of onlookers. "Anyone here see anything?" he asked, not hopeful. "Did anyone witness this accident?" "That wasn't no accident," said a young man from the back of the crowd. He pushed his way to the front. "I saw it, officer. I saw everything." Sonny took out his pen and notebook. "Why don't you tell me everything you saw," he said. "It was just like being at the races," the young man said. "I was buying a paper across the street there," he said, pointing to a rack of the Lytton Tribune, "when I heard tires screaming and motors roaring. When I looked up I saw this green car and another car racing down the street, side by side!" "The other car," Sonny said. "Could you identify it?" "Oh, yeah," said the young man. "A late-model Cadillac." "Are you sure about that?" Sonny asked. "I'm sure," the young man said quickly. "My old man sells them. I can spot a Caddy five miles away." "Right," said Sonny. He made a note in his book. "Can you remember what color it was?" "Blue. Light blue." "Not black?" Sonny asked, pausing. "Man, I know the difference between a Cadillac and a Lincoln blindfolded-I sure as hell can tell the difference between light blue and black." Sonny nodded. "Then what did you see?" "When they got closer, there was a loud pop-I thought it must've been one of the tires. Right after that the green car here does a nosedive into the side of that building." "And the Cadillac?" Sonny asked. "He was cooking," the young man continued breathlessly. "He was jammin'made a right a couple of blocks down." "I don't suppose you got a look at the license plate ... " "Part of it. I think I saw part of it. 'L964' was what it was. l'm pretty sure that's what it was." Sonny nodded and wrote it down. "OK, anybody else? Anybody besides this young man here see something?" A few murmurs drifted across the top of the crowd, but nobody spoke up. "All Good Samaritans, eh?" said Sonny. He closed his notebook and glanced at his watch. His backup would arrive anytime now. He stepped off the sidewalk and took a look around the sedan, searching for anything he might have missed. Not much here, he thought. Unless you want to count a cracked-up sedan, a brick wall with a hole, and-not to forget the details-